


Glitter

by kita (thekita)



Series: Glitterverse [1]
Category: Angel: the Series RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-30
Updated: 2003-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekita/pseuds/kita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's RPS from back when we used to be ashamed of the stuff. Set during the final season of AtS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitter

  
_  
_   


Dave’s sprawled out in the center of the sofa bed, surrounded by magazines, remote controls and various and sundry bags of chips and bottles of pills. Looks kind of like a stoner’s picnic just exploded in his living room.

He’s propped upright against at least four pillows, shirt off, sheet puddled just below his abs, arm thrown oh so casually behind his head. James could almost believe PR came over and posed him for a beefcake photo, but -

“Dude. You look really really- stoned.”

Dave smiles, the slow, leaky smile of the chemically altered. “Yeah.”

James laughs, tosses the card and the gold box of chocolate covered somethings onto the coffee table. “Get well soon, we miss you, lots of cheer, all done.”

Dave just keeps on grinning. “You get the short straw, hunh?”

“Pretty much. Slide over big shot, my feet hurt.”

James pulls off Spike’s motorcycle boots, tosses them under the couch. Sits down carefully, leans back and looks over at Dave. He can feel the heat coming off his skin, inhales the stink of strong pain meds and anesthesia.

“Where’s the wife and munchkin?”

“Jamie’s filming her new pilot in Mexico, Jayden’s at her mom’s for the weekend.”

James blinks. “You’re here like this alone? All weekend? That’s some shitty timing, man.”

“Nah. Planned it that way. She sees this knee, she’d have me staying home from work all week. Can’t do that.”

James tries to think about what it would be like to have someone in his own life who’d put his health ahead of his career. Can’t for a second conjure it.

“Beer in the fridge,” Dave says, raising his head from the pillow for half a second. His eyes are hooded. Shiny.

“Cool.”

Dave’s kitchen is blue and green. Everything matches, from the paper towels and toaster oven cover, to the table linens and cheery, lace curtains over the sink. There’s a border of vines and flowers creeping around the cherry wood cabinets. Over the wrought iron table, a black and white photo of Dave, Jamie and the baby.

James remembers the interview he read with Chris Kane, the one where he talked about spending New Year’s Eve at Dave’s house with the family. He’d said it was “intimate” and James had grinned, thought about double entendres and set gossip. He gets it now. The refridgerator is stocked with baby food, all the napkins are the same colors, and there’s neat little piles of kid toys in every corner. It’s real. A home. Just not his. Not at all like his.

There’s football on the t.v. when James wanders back into the living room. Dave’s eyes are closed, and James considers quietly leaving. But his boots are under the couch, there’s a cold beer in his hand and home is an hour away if he’s lucky and he makes every light. So he sits down on the edge of the sofa, trying not to to disturb Sleeping Gimpy.

Dave grimaces anyway. “Don’t sit by the knee,” he mumbles. Tosses one of the fluffy pillows in James’ direction without opening his eyes. James gives a mental shrug and scoots up the mattress. Leans back on the pillow and turns the volume on the t.v. up a bit.

Dave doesn’t move.

Four beers and a quarter of the game later, Dave still hasn’t moved. James fights the urge to check if he’s still breathing.

Turns around and nearly jumps out of his socks to find Dave staring at him, his head tilted to one side like that dog on the records. His eyes are still shiny.

“You’re very pretty,” Dave says, blinking slower than should technically be physically possible.

“Uh-hunh,” James says slowly. “I am. And you are very stoned.”

Dave giggles. Giggles from a 225 lb. man are very disturbing, and not something that James ever wants to hear again.

“I am,” Dave agrees.

One of the teams scores a touchdown and James turns back to the game, but he can still feel Dave’s eyes on him. He looks back. Dave, his face far too close now, and James can count the blonde hairs on his chin and upper lip. His breath is warm, smells like milkshakes and medicine and meaningful things.

“You’re still pretty,” Dave says. Still smiling.

“I’m always pretty, big shot.” His voice is even but his damn heart is skipping merrily along like a pony with a very small brain of its own.

Another giggle, and it’s just downright creepy is what that is. James remembers that Dave was playing Angelus when James realized he wasn’t actually a bad actor. Wonders if he’s acting now.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Jimmy-boy,” Dave says, patting James’ knee conspiritorially. “I’m pretty much always stoned.”

And James thinks about injuries- back, ribs, knees. About Dave hanging from the ceiling and getting hit over the head with crowbars, getting knocked on his ass every ep and never once complaining. About finding Dave curled up fetal position in his trailer and him threatening James with more bodily harm than he could possibly have managed in that condition if James ever told anyone about it.

He draws a hand slowly down Dave’s stomach, pulls the soft sheet down past his calves. The right knee is black and blue and yellow, staples glaring and winking through a knot the size of a breakfast grapefruit. Could fry a breakfast egg on the heat coming off of that swollen skin.

Dave just lies there with his eyes closed. Lets James stare and gawk like a godamned fanboy til he drops the sheet.

“Jesus. That’s-“

“Nice, isn’t it?” Dave finishes, and the smile is back on. “Good thing Angel don’t wear shorts.”

No. Not a bad actor at all.

“How can you even consider going back to work like that?”

Dave bristles. James can almost see all the little hairs standing up on the backs of his arms. He watches Dave’s chest as he inhales, rises and expands like a stray tom cornered in an alley.

“Got a wife and kid to feed, Jimmy. Not much of a choice.”

And James frowns, because there’s more in the silence between Dave’s words than in the words themselves. Things like out of context quotes about one another in TV Guide interviews, and rivalries over Q ratings that the media might have exploited, but certainly never created.

“Uh-hunh,” James says again. And if it’s slowly this time it’s to bite down the flare of blue anger at the base of his skull that he always feels when Dave uses that tone on him. Particularly in this context. As if James doesn’t get it, could never possibly understand what it’s like to have to trade your body for your work. James can’t ever quite figure if Dave is blind or really just as stupid as he can sometimes appear. Right now James has a hard time giving a damn either way.

“Don’t bite my head off, man, I’m just saying it wouldn’t kill your career not to –”

“My career? Thanks for the advice, rock star. I’m a second rate actor on a third rate show airing on a fourth rate network, same as you.”

“Fuck you,” James says wearily, reaching for his shoes on the floor.

Dave laughs, but it’s sharp, mean. James used to hear that laugh a lot in high school. “Thought I’d have to be at least twenty years younger to have a shot at that,” Dave says.

James grabs his shoes, snorts. Years of Method and his voice is fucking steady, thank you very much. “Oh that’s original, Davey. No one’s ever gone there before.”

Turns and looks at Dave before stuffing his feet back into the godamned boots. “Now are you gonna shut the fuck up or are we gonna do the one about selling your car on Ebay? Or- *not* selling it, whatever the case may be.”

Dave doesn’t wince. Dave never winces. “You know what sucks?” he says instead, and James just glares at him, sticks his foot in his other boot.

Dave keeps talking anyway. “We’re old, the both of us. Old. You and your million might have saved my fucking show, but you’re not gonna win an Oscar, man. Like, not ever. And I’m never gonna get to be Batman.”

James looks up. “You’re—what?”

“Batman,” Dave repeats, using the ‘you are very stupid’ tone again. It sounds too sad to make James angry this time. Dave sounds too sad.

“Didn’t …know you wanted to be Batman.”

“Dude. Doesn’t every kid wanna be Batman?” Dave asks, and James would call that tone wistful, if he thought Dave had that in him.

James blinks. “You’re very stoned.”

“Right. We did this dance already. I’m stoned, you’re pretty.”

And then Dave is doing something only the very best pain meds would let him do, he’s leaning in and kissing James, mouth open and hot and slippery.

Except David isn’t kissing like he’s stoned. He’s kissing like he’s starving, and James gets a whipflash vision of being an oasis. Of Dave crawling through mountains of sand strewn with potato chips and stuffed toys just to drink from James’ mouth. He’s had too much fucking beer. But the analogy’s not far off. This is all just illusory. Illusion.

Huge hand holding his head still, wide, wet tongue driving into his mouth with an urgency that would be intimidating if Dave didn’t taste like codiene and twinkies and cola. If it all wasn’t just a mirage.

James pulls away before he gives up a groan. “Dave, this is –”

“Christ, don’t you ever just shut the fuck *up*?”

Neon and bleach up his spine again, and *fuck you*. Fuck you, Mr. Leading Man with your goddamn square jaw and your half-assed predictions of fucking doom.

Second place means we try harder, and James’ tongue can rape that big mouth just fine. Can tug back on Dave’s head til he whimpers, and fuck his tongue against wet and pink and the hint of teeth.

James opens his eyes and this close up, Dave’s face is distorted. Funhouse mirrors and more illusions, lust and more than a hint of pain. Still handsome in that dark, rugged way that James will never quite manage.

He leans back in and kisses Dave again, hard and just as hungry, until even the image behind his eyes is a blur of skin and panic.

It’s Dave who pulls back this time, gasping and red-mouthed and kiss-stupid.

“Shit,” he mumbles, and James wants to laugh, until one of those football player hands starts rubbing his crotch. Dave’s far too big to be a quarterback, but his fingers wrap around James’ cock unerringly through the denim and cotton, and James groans on the first upstroke.

If there’s any decency left inside him at all, it’s fading fast. But there’s a *wedding* picture staring at him from the end table and –

“What about the wife?”

Dave blinks stupidly. That’s not acting, James decides.

“She knows.”

“Knows … what exactly?”

“That this is Hollywood.”

Then Dave squeezes again and James can’t stop the archwrigglegrunt.

“Actually, that’s my dick, but thanks for the flattering comparison.”

Dave laughs now and it’s penny candy and arcade music, wholesome things that James never knew enough to miss.

Dave is stoned and stitched and can’t begin to move well enough to help James out of his jeans, but in the end it’s all right. Because he kisses like a motherfucker and his hand is exactly the right size to slip and slide over James’ cock without ever leaving enough room for breath to escape.

And pretty soon James is climbing Dave like a fucking tree, humping his hand like a fucking teenager and all the while that huge godamn hand is jerking him until his spine melts and glows. He’s liquid, amber and golden, and his eyes roll back like the star of a bad porn video.

And then he’s coming all over the flowered sheets, all over Dave’s belly, hands and thighs, and Dave just doesn’t seem to mind.

Panting while Dave grins down at him, big, brown golden retriever eyes all happy and hopeful. James groans again, throws an arm over his head and reaches for the paper towels. Peels back the wet sheet and wipes Dave clean with hands still shaking. Dave’s cock peeks out from the fly of his plaid boxers, hard and wet. Just as hopeful.

James leans down and licks at the tip. Dave arches, bucks, hisses in pain. James lifts his head, puts his hands on either side of Dave’s wide hips, tugs the shorts down, puts his hands back where they were.

“Shh. Lay still,” he says, and sometimes, Spike’s smile is really James’ own.

Been a while since he’s done this. Since he’s had to. Wanted to.

A skill learned is never really forgotten, and he’s better at giving head than playing guitar, than playing at human some days.

Dave makes music when James swallows him down; he whines and sings and tries hard not to dance. James keeps holding him still, which means his hands aren’t free to accompany, but Dave doesn’t seem to mind that either.

Happy stoned-guy noises in the back of his throat that rapidly turn to grunts and fragile little whimpers when James bobs his head faster, meets Dave’s stomach with his nose, Dave’s balls with his chin.

Then hands pulling at James’ hair and a noise that could be his name, but James just keeps leaning in deeper, swallowing harder around the cock doing cartwheels in his throat. Dave comes with a strangled sort of sound, as if he’s the one sucking cock, and James looks up to see him with half his fist in his mouth.

Licks his lips, swallows again. Pats Dave on one thigh and sits up. Dave’s eyes are closed and there are teeth marks in the side of his hand.

“You OK down there, big guy?” James asks, running a hand through his own hair.

“Mmm.”

He laughs, pulls the sheets back over Dave’s lap.

“I really gotta pee, but I don’t think I can stand up,” Dave says.

James looks at Dave, looks down. The floor is littered with crushed chips and spilled soda cans. “Tell you what, big shot,” he says, “I’ll stick around and help you out so long as you don’t give me shit about *any* of this in the morning.”

“Jimmy, I’m not even gonna *remember* any of this in the morning.”

“Thank Christ,” James mutters. Slides one of Dave’s arms over his shoulders and helps him up, helps him limp and stumble toward the bathroom.

“Thanks, man,” Dave says before closing the door.

James nods. Leans against the wall. Lights a cigarette. Waits.

He looks up at a small gold-framed picture in the hallway. Miniature hand prints, with the date scrawled across the bottom in handwriting that isn’t Dave’s. Jayden’s little palms, preserved forever in red paint and glitter.

  
-End


End file.
